A Second Chance
by Panduh-Fox-love
Summary: Harry stepped forward, ready to die. He wanted to see his mother, his father and godfather. He wanted his family back. Instead of moving on, Harry is thrown into a new adventure, one of secrets and dangers, where he is hunted and pursued. But unlike last time, he has something to protect. A young, wide-eyed child named Tom Riddle.
1. Chapter 1

Please review and tell me what you think. I am trying my best to be a better author but I need your help. Thanks a bunch, and I don't own Harry Potter! 3

~Awakening~

A boy stood in an empty white space. He watched as his only mentor, the man with sparkling eyes and long beard, walked away. His own bright green eyes were trained intently on the old man until the last second, when the faint glimmering of the flowing purple robes began to fade away like mist. Now, the boy was completely alone.

Harry clenched his fists and struggled with the tears welling in his eyes. He was dead. His body lay lifeless on the other side. He knew it was necessary, for the greater good. Dumbledore had manipulated him until the very end, and done it marvelously. Still, the horror of the situation made itself a nice nest in the pit of his stomach. All of the death flashed before his eyes as he stood in the train station of death itself. Tonks and Lupin were dead, their lifeless bodies giving no comfort to their young son, now orphaned. Even the inseparable Weasley twins were only one half of a whole now. And who else perished in the last few moments of his life? So many more were sure to follow...and so many had already walked the path of death before.

The seventeen year old looked around him, his shaggy unkempt hair still managing to get into his eyes. He was so weary of all the pain, of all the darkness. Now there was a chance to go back. To keep moving in the face of hardship and sorrow to make a better world...or to sleep, restfully and peacefully and leave the world and its problems to the next generation. It seemed so tempting, he would be able to see everyone who had walked the valley of death; his parents, his godfather, his friends. On the other hand, he could walk out the large double doors and back to the life he knew. Hagrid, Ron, Hermione...Ginny.

Life wasn't fair. He knew that. He was willing to give his existence if only the ones who died in this war could come back. So many died for him in just the last few hours...he wished with all his heart he could fix it. But there was no way. There was no third choice. Harry Potter closed his eyes in thought, swallowing dryly. There was no way to bring back all those who died, no way to end the pain before it really began. Though the living beckoned to him, his soul was too weary to obey the calls.

His mind whirled, pointless ramblings of a dead man. The injustice began with Tom Riddle, being an orphan with no one to love or teach him what was right from wrong. Then the wound began to fester, grow until he was old enough to reach out and infect others with it. The disease spread, sowing death and heart ache and no one had dared stop it. Why hadn't anyone stopped it?

His eyes snapped open, tracing the patterns of the white empty space, and the train sitting across from him. Nothing ever went as planned. He sighed, having decided. Harry James Potter was going to get on that train, and ride to see his parents and loved ones again. He was going to die, and let it all go. The thought of it, the simple thought made all the stress seep away from his weary body. He lifted his foot, ready to take his first step into the light. Instead of moving forward, he was suddenly moving down.

The white, clean space was gone. He screamed, reaching up to grab the ground of the place he had previously stood, a light circle above his head. He was too late, and soon the hole was out of sight. He was swept down the darkness, wind whirling past him, and his ears were assaulted with sounds. Screams, voices filled with pain and longing, hurt and dread made their way to his ears. The sounds of the dead. Sounds of a time that had passed, all the sounds from the moment Tom Riddle was born, to the time Harry Potter had died. Everything in between came to be all over again.

The death of the Riddle's in their mansion, their screams echoing across the empty space. The sorrowful cries of a helpless Draco Malfoy...the laughter of a red headed joker, before an explosion ripped through the air. Even the soundless happenings, Dumbledore falling through the air, his last breath leaving him, Sirius swaying into the curtain, his mouth open but no sound escaping. Death, screams, the cries of a mother begging for her child's life. Everything that had been written in the stars and began moving forward forever, began going back. The sun began to rise in the west, setting slowly in the east. Stars twisted back and forth, swaying in the fabric of time and space.

Harry managed to bring his hands up, clamping over his ears. But sounds assaulted him, so many sounds. So much hurt, and death. How could one person change anything? How could he hope to accomplish something so big on his own? Suddenly, his eyes began to see light. Below his feet was a steadily growing circle of brightness, coming up to meet him. Harry's instincts snapped into action. He reached for his wand, not knowing what he would do but feeling his body again and knowing that if he fell from his speed, like a fall from a broom, he would break more than just a few bones. His fingers went to his jacket pocket, and suddenly there were two. Smooth tendrils of wood formed out of no where, the Elder wand and his own familiar wand, singing together as they appeared at the tip of his fingers. A wave of cold air blew over him as the light got closer, he shivered and wished for a warm cloak. Harry's shoulders felt heavy, and a thick brown winter cloak landed on his shoulders suddenly. His mind whirled, getting closer to the light and unknown, and the mysterious contraption of the darkness he was in. Parts of his brain that hadn't worked for a long time began to fumble around. The part of his brain that told him how to escape Aunt Marge's dogs or do homework for long periods of time. He knew what had happened, not why or how but he knew what. When he reached for his wands, they appeared. He wanted a cloak, and it had appeared.

The next question was: Where was he falling to? Harry saw the light grow larger and he realized that once he was out of the darkness, he wouldn't be able to call his things to him again. He squeezed his eyes shut and quickly concentrated. Where was he going? What did he need, if he was still alive?

A small black stone fell into his winter cloak pocket, accompanied by a large silk-like cloak. Like the sorcerers stone from the mirror, the two other items gifted by death to the brothers were there, in his own possession once again. The clinking from a bag of gold as it pulled itself into the other pocket could be heard past the whistling wind. His hand went out, wishing for a way to catch himself, wishing for the smooth wood of his firebolt even though his brain told him it was smashed, and thus impossible. Suddenly, it was in his hand, the chestnut colored wood pushing itself into his palm like an old friendly dog.

Before he realized it, his feet were moving through the light. He pushed shut his eyes, blinded as the rest of his body followed. His legs crumpled beneath him painfully, and he screamed out as the stone floor came up to meet him. Harry sunk into the ground, his head bouncing off the cold rock and he gritted his teeth, consciousness swaying in and out. He suddenly..._was_. And in a very painful way.

His green eyes flickered shut, letting darkness overtake him.

A few moments later, the green orbs came to life again. Water was soaked into his body, and a bit of red seeped from his scalp. He shivered, his breathing coming in short, raspy breaths. His head pounded, his body shook and he felt as weak as a ghost. As his eyes flickered around, orienting to the sight and gravity of being alive again, he took notice of where he was. Hogsmead, a back alley behind Rosmerta's pub. Listening carefully, he nodded as no shouts or footsteps could be heard. Good. He was alone.

He groaned slightly as he pushed himself up, kneeling on the ground and wishing it didn't spin as much. He blinked wearily, looking up into the street, wet and cold and empty. Harry Potter was very much alive again.

But why? And how? Was he right where he started? Or was he...somewhere else?


	2. Chapter 2

It took him a moment to realize it.

The blood pounding in his ears, the steady beating in his chest. The sharp contrast of the world, so dark and dreary, it was beautiful. The cold assaulting him, making goosbumps rise from his skin. His skin, warm and...alive. He was alive. His lungs stretched, taking in as much air as possible. He could hear himself gasp and struggle for a moment with the feeling. His hands grasped the cold stone beneath him and he hauled himself up. Where...was he? Scents filled the air, laughter came from a warm, lighted window, signs shook in the wind, clanging against buildings and poles.

The smell alone brought back memories. Meat pies, the warm scent of potatoes and beer, a small hint of pumpkin spice...memories of sneaking into the Three Broomsticks, memories of cold winters with warm mugs of butterbeer. Harry's bright green eyes darted around, double vision making it slightly harder to figure out where he was. Down the ally he saw a larger cobblestone road, lined with shops and lanterns...

Hogsmeade.

His knees grew cold, his jeans soaking up the water he was kneeling in. Something ticklish ran down his face, he touched it and found a small bit of blood. He shook his head, the cobblestones lining up properly in his vision. He had fallen, right? But from where? His shoulders became slowly heavier with the rain soaking into his cloak. For a moment, Harry stared at the wall of The The Broomsticks before standing abruptly.

Reeling for a moment, Harry gained his footing. He was alive. He wasn't sure how, but he was. That was all that mattered to him, months of being on guard taught him to not care about anything else; except the safety of yourself and your companions. How could he think about what had just happened when relaity was there before him, kicking him in the face? his friends were still in danger, the war was still being fought. So many had already died and every second he wasted was another second someone else could leave the world forever.

The firebolt was sitting a foot away from where he had fallen, the tip of the stick sunken into a puddle of rainwater. Quickly he scooped up the broom from where it lay and gripped it tightly, swinging his leg over it like he had done a thousand times. He had to get back to school. He had to make sure they were alright.

Pushing off from the ground, Harry rose into the air. The wind shoved him back and forth with a vengence, as if trying to put the teen back on the ground again. The broom followed the road beneath, retracing the steps Harry Potter had taken so many times to get from Hogsmeade and back. He focused on the road, on his speed, on not getting shoved off his broom by the wild storm around him. His fingers tightened around the slick shaft of the broomstick, trying to keep his grip as the nerves slowly froze and retraced. Soon he was holding on with just his palms, his fingers frozen.

He briefly wished he had remembered to button up his new fur cloak before taking into the sky. It was a hundred times colder here, beyond the shelter of walls. The air was much colder than he remembered. When did it start raining anyway? It must have started just a few minutes after Voldemort cursed him. The thought of the battle revived the instinct in him. The rain was not in either party's favor, as fighting was always that much harder when you're slipping around in puddles. It could mean the death of either side, and luck was the only thing that could save them. Harry never relied on luck. He began to think of a plan to draw the other side into the castle, where the students would have a better knowledge of the layout and the rain wouldn't be a factor. His heart began to beat faster in response. Adrenaline burned as it pulsed through his veins, tightening the muslces and forcing his body to take in more oxygen.

He had his wand and the Elder wand, and with the Elder wand is was hard to loose. What about everyone else, the others who were still alive? His stomach rolled. How long had he left his friends to defend for themselves? An hour, or more? Had Neville killed Nagini? Was Voldemort already defeated? He prayed against hope that they were okay_. Ron...Hermione...Ginny_, _Please_, he prayed, _Please let Ginny be alright. _

The broom shot through the air, leaving hogsmeade far behind and getting closer and closer to the castle. He began to see the stone towers ahead as he squinted. He couldn't see any fire anymore, and he considered the rain probably put it out. Unable to completely asess the damage from this far away, he leaned forward to hug his familiar broomstick and pushed it to its limit of speed. Rain pelted his face like small rocks, flowing down his glasses like a stream. He had to go faster, it seemed like every second he had to think about the impending war was an hour. His friends, the only family he ever had, were in danger. It seemed like he was always rushing to save someone, rushing right into mortal danger with death on his heels. Sometimes he was so exhausted from the constant adrenaline rush that he wanted to just give up. He wanted that peace, the nice house on the hillside with a garden, the family waiting for him...And yet the only chance at a future family was there, in Hogwarts. Ginny was in the middle of a war, without him.

The forbidden forest began to thin underneath him, the lake just a few miles ahead, and Harry's head shot up, braving the wind and the rain and searching for something, some sign of a fight. It was then that something began to feel terribly wrong. His stomach shot straight into his throat, a horrible sick feeling that pulled at his very being.

The damaged and broken castle he left...was no longer broken.

It looked the same as it did a year ago, the same massive impenetrable castle that was his only safe haven for many years. No longer was the castle a ruin as it was when he last left it, the last bits of stone crumbling and the very soul of the place baring itself to shield the students it had alive. Harry stopped his broom in midair, his mind scrambling as the rain pounded down on him. Suddenly the cold seemed much colder than it was before.

Hogwarts was safe, there were no people outside the grounds, the war had left no scars at all. Had Harry simply been gone as long as it took to repair the castle? If the war was over, who had won? Was Ginny still waiting for him to come back? Something bothered him, something dragged tendrils across the conscious of his mind, like he had missed something very important. He hovered on the edge of the Forbidden Forest, his broom bending and fighting against the wind. The trees beneath him grew strong, thick trunks stretching their heads towards the sky. The trees that had been burnt and pushed down were simply gone. In their place, full-grown Sessile Oaks sprouted straight out of the ground. Harry glanced around, his mind trying to piece together bits of a puzzle that didn't seem to match. Somewhere in his education, someone had said that these types of Oak trees took a hundred years or more to mature.

A gust of wind pushed Harry and his broom slighty to the right. He followed, bobbing and hovering in the air, straining against the rain to see more as the wind lead him along the tree line. Maybe if he could see something, some hint of what happened, he would understand...

Everyone was gone. Hogwarts showed no sign of anything. No war, no fire, no attack...nothing.

Nothing.

His brain seemed to stall, like an engine without fuel it simply sputtered against the problems faced. The teen couldn't comprehend it. He had been here, not even an hour ago. How could everything have changed in that short amount of time? Even with magic, it seemed impossible. Had he been gone longer than he thought? Or was this some kind of vivid dream? Had something or someone put a spell on him, for whatever reason? Why would they, for all intent and purposes, the Boy-Who-Lived sacrificed himself and lay in the forest at the feet of Voldemort. Yet...

If he followed that logic, why wasn't he dead? Didn't Harry ask to die, stepped towards the train to be lead to the next life? His soul was ready to move on, and yet...He swayed in the wind, the broom being pushed further and further as the castle vanished from sight, being driven back towards Hogsmeade. Slowly, the adrenaline began to leak out of his system. He felt himself being thrust further and further away from the school. His arms ached from straining to hold the broom straight, and his face stung from the wind and biting cold. Where was he? Was this really the Hogwarts that he knew?

His mind barely worked, struggling in a fog of confusion. All he wanted to do was leave this fighting behind him, see his mother and father and godfather again. The feeling of loss expanded in his chest. For all he knew, he could be lost forever in a sort of limbo, all because of one selfish act. He would never see any of his friends and family...living or dead. He was...alone.

Harry's black converse began to drag on the ground. Feet alighting on the ground, he steadied himself before pulling the broom up and leaning it into his shoulder. He found himself standing in front of a very familiar sight, none other than the shrieking shack. It looked much darker and more ominous when looked upon by onesself, without the feeling of friends laughing and lightening the dark atmosphere. Harry swallowed, remembering all the times he had found himself alone. At the Dursley's, fighting voldemort, in the chamber of secrets, the summer after Sirius died, those were all times when he had been alone and yet he survived. The Golden boy was very good at surviving. There was probably a simple explination for his confusion, and all he had to do was sleep and regain his strength and take a freash look in the morning. After all, now that he knew his friends weren't in immediate danger, he could take care of himself for once. He could do this. He had it under control. Harry repeated the mantra in his head, clinging to the sense of hope.

Black tendrils of sopping wet hair flipped and crashed into Harry's forhead violently as he moved up to the worn wooden door. A plan was quickly starting to form in his mind; finding shelter was first and formost, and inside he could start a fire and warm up from the storm. He could sleep tonight, and when the sun rose he would talk into town and perhaps ask Rosmerta what was going on. The owelry would be open, so sending a letter to Ron and Hermione was an option as well. The bag on his belt clinked with gold. He could afford to stay more than one night at the Three Broomsticks, and had enough to pay for food and bus fare if he decided to just travel to the Burrow instead.

He slipped a cold hand into an even colder jacket pocket and wrapped his frozen fingers against the warm wood of his holly wand. He touched the tip of the wood lightly against the grey door, muttering to himself weakly. The small click of the lock unlatching was unaudible compared to the roaring sound of the wind and rain pounding against everything outside. Pushing against the door with a shoulder, Harry managed to unstick the frame and with a loud groan the entrance opened widely.

Inside, the dust covered hallway leaned almost precariously to the left. Despite the smell and haggard look Harry wasted no time in getting away from the rain. The door slammed closed with a hard shove, dust and particles lifting from their perch on the wall nearby to float elsewhere. He thought for one absurd moment to put a bubble head charm on himself to protect from the dust. Green eyes scanned the doors and stairs until he settled on the faded brown door at the end of the hallway. His eyelids suddenly became as heavy as lead as he stumbled towards the mysterious room. All of a sudden, the stress of the situation overtook the adrenaline of the fight, and all his pains came back. His head pounded with his heart beat, his face stung and his fingers were stiff with the cold.

He opened the door once again with his shoulder, not even sure if he could move his arms, which hung limply at his side. Raven black hair dripped water, constantly flowing down his face like a rain cloud of his own. The room he stepped into was plain, and perfect for his needs. It was a small living room, with a fireplace in the wall across from him. A brown couch had barely distinguished floral print on it, and it was resting haphazardly across from the fire. The two doors lead into the hallway, from which he came, and the other one was slighty ajar, showing a dusty counter and cubbord. He assumed that was the kitchen door. The only window in the room was borded up nicely, and no light shown through.

It was perfect for his needs. Not knowing if there was still a war on, Harry at least needed a defensible position. Tired and exhausted as he was, he forced himself to take a few steps into the room and raise his wand. The memories in his mind were foggy at best, but he dragged them up, bringing forth Hermione's voice as she taught them the defensive spells. Harry dragged his wand lazily through the air and muttered the incantations to himself twice before he felt the drago of power and saw the shimmer breifly in the air. Shoving his hand back into his soaking pocket, he walked to the door he just came from and locked it with _Colloportus_.

Leaning his forehead against the dusty door, Harry took a deep breath. His head was spinning with the simple effort of moving, and he could feel the blood drying on his temple. He forced himself to focus on the next task, getting warm. He would contact his friends tomorrow. Right now, he had to stop the shivering he just noticed was racking his body. How long he had been out there, staring at the castle, he had no idea. Straightening up slowly, Harry Potter moved to the door leading to the kitchen and closed and locked that door as well.

He managed to collapse in front of the fireplace. His back bent, his body curling into itself to keep warm. The fur cloak he had somehow gotten was soaked through, and was now more of a hinderance than a help. With a shrug, the cloak fell heavily onto the floor. Shaking fingers fumbled with Harry's holly wand, until it was pointed at the empty fireplace.

"I-In-" He took a deep breath. "Incendio." A small spark lept from the tip of the wand and suddenly, the fireplace was flickering with a large fire. The rotten wood still inside would keep for maybe an hour, until he would have to go out and find his own. Harry's body shook violdently and he inched closer to the flames. He had learned enough about doing spells non-verbally enough that under normal conditions he would have been able to, but with his mind so foggy and his body so weak he decided that setting fire to the old house was probably a bad idea.

The fire was warm, so hot that it steamed the water off of Harry's face in a matter of minutes. He was so close to the fire the heat seared at his face but he didn't dare move away. The chance of getting hypothermia was to overbearing on his mind to be careful. He shivered, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and sitting on his legs. He waited patiently to get warm again.

Meanwhile, unwanted thoughts intruded into his mind. He tried to take on Hermione's thought process and figure something out. He had a few bits of information, which lined up, still didn't make any sense. Hogwarts was undamaged, so either there was no war or it was repaired. There must have been a war, because he was there, so the other explination was that the castle was repaired after he last saw it. If that was true, then Harry had to figure out how long he had been gone before making any rash decisions about contacting people. Harry wiggled from side to side, allowing his legs to move from underneath him to cross in front of him, closer to the fire.

So Harry must have been gone quite a while, depending on how long it took to repair the castle. Which brought up the question of how long he had actually been in that place. Now that the danger had passed, there was nothing keeping him from relieving the unfortunate thing that had happened. He _had _died, Dumbledore had confirmed it. Yet that Dumbledore also said he would be able to move on if he chose it, and here he was, back in reality alive and semi-well. How long had he sat around in King's Cross, thinking? To him, it felt only like a few minutes. Yet there was no class about what happens after death. No teacher or book had ever told anyone weather the laws of physics or time applied after death or not. Harry could have been there for a lot longer and wouldn't even had known.

He reached up a shakey hand and squeezed some of the water out of his hair, the drops relieving the searing heat on his face for only a moment. Red and orange light danced over the room and his face. What about the Hollows? How had they followed him to Hogsmeade? As a matter of fact, how did Harry himself end up in Hogsemeade? King's Cross also gave him that fur cloak, and his old broom, and some of his money. The questions had no answers. He had no way of knowing how death worked or what came after. He could be in limbo, or he could be in the near future, and the train station may have bended the laws of space and time because...well, it just did. It did him no good pondering about it if he wouldn't get anywhere.

He was used to confusion, of course. Harry James Potter had been kept in the darkness, kept from the wizarding world itself for eleven years. He had been kept from the truth until just a few months ago, when he had to figure it out with only his friends to help. He took the information he had, stored it away and moved on. He was used to shoving the feeling of helplesness away by now.

His body had finally stopped shivering and his hands were slowly regaining feeling as the room around him warmed up. Harry put his right hand above his face and flexed the fingers slowly. Glancing around, he saw his firebolt laying on the ground behind the couch, where he had aparently dropped it while being too cold or busy to care. He carefully got up and tugged on his blue sweatshirt uncomftorably. The cloak has kept him mostly dry, but his clothes still got the leftover rain. He stepped uncomftorably up to his broomstick and picked it up gently. No matter the reason, he was glad to have his only present from Sirius back. He propped it up against the wall, being carefull to avoid any spider webs and major dust mounds.

Bringing his attentions to the dust, Harry looked around with a new clarity. It was worse than the Grimmauld place, and that was saying something. Then again, the only occupant the Shrieking Shack had seen was a werewolf once a month, 17 years ago. Bugs inhabited the Shrieking Shack now, and Harry didn't even want to look at what the couch held. He pondered for a moment, not knowing if he knew any spells that repelled bugs. Then again, he only really learned spells when he needed them for Horcrux hunting or fighting Voldemort. After a few moments, an unbidden memory came to mind. Ron and Harry were once attacked in a forest by giant spiders, and he remembered using a spell from Riddle's diary to defend them both. Harry allowed himself a small smile of his childhood memories and Ron's terror of spiders. He hoped the spell worked on regular spiders as he lifted his wand and pointed to the center of the room. The spell he had never used but that once, so he was wary about using it wordless without practice.

"Arania Exumai." A blue light splayed from the tip of Harry's wand and pushed itself through the room. A disturbing amount of scuttles could be heard and Harry looked in horror as the blue light vanished through the wall and hundreds of black dots began moving across the floor and walls, vanishing through the doors into the hallway and kitchen. As the last spider dissapeared under the crack, Harry lowered his wand. He noticed his mouth slightly agap and shuddered. He wasn't afraid of spiders...but that was enough to give him the spooks. To think he almost slept in the middle of that.

Harry eyed the couch uncomftorably. He had no idea how to make whatever other insects might be there evacuate, and he had at least a few spells he could think of to use to his advantage. He pointed his wand at the couch and cast the Scouring charm.

"Scourgify." The couch lightened significantly to a deep shade of pink as other bugs and dust bunnies were hopefully vanished. Thankfully, this spell reacted to the type of material cleaned, so it didn't use water or soap. On second thought, Harry doubted he'd have to worry about mold on the couch anyway. "Engorgio." He smiled as the couch swelled to twice its size, and just for good measure, "Spongify" the couch shined a deep purple for a moment before going back to normal but looking a good deal more fluffy. At least he could make it as comftorable as possible, now that his mind was in working condition again. He walked back to the fire and crouched down beside the wet cloak.

He reached into one of its deep pockets and brought out the Elder wand. Holding the pale wood in his hands, Harry's eyebrows furrowed at the curious tingling sensation it sent down his palm. He set it on the floor gently and gripped his own wand, its familiar tingle bringing comfort. He drew out the black resurection stone next, setting it down quickly next to the wand, being careful not to turn it over. Next he drew out his Invisibility cloak, which he tossed onto the couch. Not only was it neigh indiscructible, but it was also a long sheet of fabric which could cover his entire body. In the other pocket, (he marveled at how deep these pockets were) he drew out a sack of coins and set that down with a small 'clank' next to the stone. Orange light danced across his objects, the fire warming up his shoulder pleasently.

Harry stood, dragging the wet and sopping cloak up with him. Shoving the holly wand in his pocket, he drew the cloak up with both hands and held it up in front of him. The next step was to dry the cloak, and he knew Hermione knew some kind of spell that made a jet of hot air come out of her wand, but Hermione had been more attentive than Harry had, in fact everyone had been more attentive than him. He was too busy contimplating Voldemort's next move to truly study. Yawning slightly, he tried to figure out another way to dry the cloak. He had no spell to levitate an object and hold it there, he could move it around and levitate a person upside down and he had no clue how to just float an object without pointing your wand at it for the rest of the night. The problem was he needed to be able to lay down and sleep while it dried. Harry decided to take a more muggle approach to it and simply hang it near the fire. The walls were not only filthy but also very bare.

Glancing up at the ceiling just above the fire, he had an idea. He let the cloak drop as he picked up his wand and once against scorgified a small section of the ceiling. He stepped back, glaring at the cloak that would cause him so much trouble just to _dry_. His clothes were also slighty uncomftorably wet, and he realized with a sigh he would also have to take those off as well. Waving his wand lazily, he wingardium leviosa'd the cloak up slowly towards the ceiling. He paused, hoping he could time it right the first try.

"Epoximise!" The cloak, to Harry's relief, adheared itself to the ceiling. The teen sighed and, making sure to clean the patch of floor by the fire leading to the couch, repeted the process with his jeans, sweater and shirt until he was left with nothing but boxers. For a moment, he felt completely rediculous and cold once again.

It was then he remembered the need for wood as the fire shrank more and more. Harry silently cursed himself and made a promise to be quick as possible. All in all, the situation sucked. Harry held onto the fact that once he had wood, he would be able to sleep right next to a fire, on a large couch which has a cushioning charm on it, underneath at least his invisibility cloak, which was better than nothing. His brain firmly pushed away the thought of where he was and what was going on. Once he figured out that dwelling on painful things could be, well, painful, his brain promplty stopped. Instead, his exsausted self was only concerned with sleep.

He quickly unlocked the door to the kitchen and padded softly amid the dark and damp. The tip of his wand lit with a soft blue light as Harry raised it above his head. He dismissed the wood from the cubbords, the stair banisters he remembered seeing, and began to wonder if he may have to travel outside before he wandered into the dining room.

Several scratched and gnawed upon chairs were strewn across the floor. The table was snapped in half by some unknown force, most likely Lupin, and was lying there, begging to be firewood. With a quick swish of his wand, Harry sent the objects trailing after him as he practically ran back into the living room. The orange light was a welcome sight, and even the air seemed cleaner after clearing out the bugs and most of the dust. He set the wood next to the fireplace and selected a chair leg and seat to be tossed in.

The flames devoured the wood and burst back into life again, sending warmth cascading across Harry's chest. He lowered his head, hoping the fire would dry at least part of his hair before he slept. Heat was begining to sear the top as his head as he gave up and stood again. He yawned, barely concealing it behind his wandless hand. Turning on his heel, he sent a sleepy glare at the couch that was so far away. With a quick flick of his wand, the couch dragged itself across the wood to rest two feet away from the fireplace. Just close enough for Harry to feel the warmth of the fire, he dropped into the soft cushions. Thankfully, the spell he cast also had the side effect of causing no person to be able to actually touch the object, reaching cushiony bliss only an inch away from the surface. Just another protection against insects, Harry congradulated himself upon being able to think so quickly. Usually he was the charge-head-on type of guy, but with no Hermione around he realized that if he wasn't more careful, even with little things, he could end up in serious danger.

He layed back and drapped the cloak across him. The-Boy-Who-Lived couldn't be too far in the future anyway. At most, he would have been gone a few days. A few days wasn't enough time to fix the entire castle, though. A small pit of worry formed inside his stomach. If he had been gone a month or more, sending an owl to Ron would be more likely met with hostility. If it was Harry in Ron's position, he would assume a death eater was impersionating him. After all, wasn't Harry Potter supposed to be dead?

Orange light flickered across the ceiling and cast a relaxing warmth across the room. Harry Potter had died, hadn't he? He thought about King's Cross. Seeing Dumbledore had been such a shock, it reopened all the wounds of the people he missed that had died. Immediatly after he had seen the dead bodies...his mind shut himself out of the memories quickly. He couldn't think of that...couldn't think of them; instead he turned his mind's eye to Tom Riddle. That thing he had seen beneath the benches seemed so twisted and dark, not even human. Somehow, Harry felt bad about leaving him. He had decided to proceed to the afterlife, and he couldn't even take the poor soul with him? Tom had no one to help and guide him, like Harry had Dumbledore. The thing had probably not even understood english, granted no one could help him, but a simple gesture would have done everything. Harry understood what comfort he could have given him. When he was younger and ignored by the Dursley's, sometimes he would go weeks without anyone speaking to him. It was maddening. If even one person outside acknowledged him, he felt like he could survive just one more day.

So why had he left it there? Even Voldemort, murderer and death bringer and dark lord deserved some type of comfort before death took everything. Harry turned over and let the heat from the fire warm his back, his face pressed into the cushioning charm of the couch. He couldn't let himself feel pity for the man, he had destroyed Harry's life! Yet what Dumbledore had said rung inside his mind. _"Do not pity the dead Harry. Pity the living, and, above all, those who live without love." _Voldemort had lived without love, but then again so had Harry, and he had lived without love for the first eleven years of his life because Voldemort had killed his parents.

He sighed, closing his eyes in thought. It seemed pointless to consider anyway. He had to defeat Voldemort, and whatever comfort he could have offered that small twisted being in King's Cross was gone, he couldn't go back. If he had, perhaps he would have offered to carry or lead the small thing into the afterlife. Even though it threw his stomach into nausia, it eased his heart to feel. He would have done it, and that made his counsiousness lift its heavy weight. It wasn't fair that this kept happening to people, and it would always keep happening. People who lived alone and desolate just went on to destroy things and people around them. If Harry hadn't had Ron and Hermione, the Weasley's and Dumbledore, Harry wasn't sure what he would have done. He didn't want to consider what he would have turned into if he was just a nobody, just someone who lived with muggles and no one cared about.

It wasn't fair, he thought as he yawned and felt darkness creep up on him. It wasn't fair they had to be alone. Everyone deserves love...

Everyone...


	3. Chapter 3

Orange light shimmered across the clouds as the sun danced on the horizon. The sky turned a deep coral, as if the sky was on fire; the usually white clouds were now a deep red, floating across the sky in various shapes. Birds chirped gently as they flew back into their nests for the night, and even the wind seemed to become a more gentle breeze. Atop a small, grassy hill stubbornly sat a mansion. Grey, crumbling slates, tinted orange, faded into darkness as the setting sun sank beneath the trees, the playing streams of sunlight flickering behind the foliage before vanishing into the night. Slowly, the world around the house lost its light, the dark colors becoming darker and everything shining with the deep purple reflected off the sky.

As if the vanishing of the sun was a signal, the world exploded into motion. A flurry of dark mists flew through the air with inhuman agility, weaving around each other like a dance and heading to the mansion. They came from all different directions, flying through the air to converge upon one spot. Dark forms swam through the large mansion doors.

Thin, pale fingers stroked the bleached wood. He took pride in every aspect of his apperance, and his wand was no different. It was polished until it shone, gently repaired of every scratch and dent with a feeling of care that was as close to love as he could get. Dark shoes padded softly and silently across the wood floors, the small taps echoeing across the walls. He twirled on his heel and eyed himself in the mirror, carefully touching upon every part of his apperance. His shoes were polished and unscuffed, his dark trousers pressed and neat. His white oxford shirt was tucked into his pants and partly hidden by his ebony black robes. Carefully brushing away an invisible speck of dust from his shoudlers, his dark eyes turned to his head, wishing there was a stray hair to be tucked away, and he had not mangled his apperance to such an extent.

Red, snake-like eyes glowed back at him. He narrowed his own eyes and the slitted ones glared back at him. His pale skin only accented the redness of his eyes, yet something deep within him swelled with power. Voldemort looked terrifying, and that was how he liked it.

Again he turned on his heel and swept out of the room, his robes billowing behind him like a bat. His followers should be waiting patiently in the dining room, exactly where he had told them to be, down to the last seat. Should any one of them disobey or speak out of turn, a quick swish of his wand would induce pain beyond measure and make sure everyone else feared his power to the point of blind obediance. He had left them waiting long enough, a typical muggle tactic employed by buisness men to instill the feeling of non-importance onto the person, or people, waiting. As he swept down the hall, his fingers curled around his precious wand tightly in rage.

Rage took hold of him more often than he should like, yet he had no way of turning it back. It ravaged his mind and made him bare his teeth at any stray sound. Dumbledore was gathering a small pack of his muggle-lovers around him, calling themselves The Order of the Pheonix. Voldemort would have to make sure such a thing never caught on. He would crush that so called 'order' before it had even started. The world should know better than to defy him, and soon it would be as afraid of him as prey is of a predator.

His legs rapidly consumed the stairs as he got to them. His entire life muggles and their dirty-blooded wizard protecters had pushed him down, and they had no idea what he would grow into. They had no idea he would rear his head back with a vengance, like a snake who had been stepped on. The world would feel his poisonous bite, first Britian and then sweeping across Europe and the whole western sphere. Such fools the British government was, even with the help of the Ministy of Magic they would not be able to defy him. If they were smart, they would have called upon every wizard to the four corners and hunted him down. Alas, they were not smart, and that would be their downfall.

Black shoes tapped against tile floor as Voldemort reached the bottom floor and marched towards the Dining room. The old Riddle mansion had been disposed of it's previous tenants with pleasure, and soon after Voldemort took up his position of power. The thirst for power was never satiated, and not until he resided in the Minister's own chair would he be satisfied. He would sit in that chair until the end of time as people bowed before him, and any who crossed him or got on his nerves would cease to exist.

His small force of Death Eaters would be enough for now, until such a time where he had an army underneath him. As for Dumbledore, he would take care of that old fool himself. He would bathe in the light of Dumbledore's last moments, when the old man's fool heart finally stopped beating. When that coward was out of the way, he could proceed to find the legendary Hollows without Albus' meddling. All he had to do was end the pathetic headmaster's life once and for all.

Many thoughts whirled around in Voldemort's head. He had people to kill, subordinates to punish, fear to spread and complete supremacy to achieve, all with the subtle cunning of a true slytherin. There was nothing that could keep him from his goal, not even death itself. He deserved to be on the top of the food chain, he was so much better and stronger and more powerful than any other in existance. The world was a cruel place and the only way to achieve anything at all was to fight tooth and claw for it. He learned that in the orphanage, in Hogwarts, and everywhere he looked. Love was an illusion, money was power, and true stength came from brutality. Such were simple truths, the rest of the world were simpletons for not realizing it sooner. Under his reign, a new era of pure-blood wizards would triumph, and no one would deny him ever again.

Already fuming, Voldemort stormed into the room. A long wooden table was stretched the entire length of the Dining room, polished and set with silver candleholders. Black cloaks were draped on the shoulders of twenty people, all sitting completely frozen in their chairs. The whispering and silent conversations that were happening stopped instantly when the Dark Lord entered the room. The man strode to the head of the table and eyed his wood chair, a dark cushion settled on the seat. The manor and all objects inside had come a long way since Voldemort first stepped inside the door, with the help of his many rich followers. Not like he didn't have a vault of his own, hidden within many layers of enchantments with the money he had 'stolen' or swindled.

Taking a deep breath and brushing his cloak out of the way, he sat and looked down the table. Many heads bowed respectfully, occupying themselves by studying the warps in the wood. The Lestranges were grouped together a few seats down from his left, Bellatrix, her husband Roddphus and his brother Rabastan. The senior Lestrange, who was now too old to serve, had served Voldemort well in his school days, and both his sons and daughter-in-law were becoming very loyal servants. Across from them, the Carrow siblings were sitting as still as stone. Voldemort, although knowing no one had dared be absent from his presence, could not help but be thorough. Each Death Eater felt a heated glare on them for a moment as Voldemort made sure absolute obediance was instilled.

Dolohav shivered as the Dark Lord looked upon him, and Crabbe swallowed loudly. Malfoy sat calmly, the only one with his shoulders straight and proud. His blue eyes were glazed over, careful to not meet eye contact and instead stared at the wall across from him. Voldemort could hear Bartimus Crouch Jr's breathing in his ear, excited as he was to please his master. Next time, he would have to remember to seat the boy farther away. Avery was sitting with his hands folded neatly in front of him, once making eye contact with Goyle before returning to study the table. Igor Karkaroff was squirming at the very end of the table, as if uncomftorable to be there. Voldemort was always keeping an eye on him, knowing the man's constitution to run rather than fight, but the boys he supplied from Durmstrang were invaluable. Nott was next to the Carrows, and Walden Mcnair was sitting in the seat of the previously deceased Wilkes, who expired just a week ago in a battle with some Aurors.

Feeling satisfied that each member had felt his icy stare on them, he rolled his shoulders and cleared his throat. The resounding flinches made a sly grin creep across his face.  
>"Crouch, proceed with your report." He said coldly.<p>

On command the boy stood, almost knocking the chair out from behind him with his excitement. He started speaking, voice cracking at the first letter than gaining confidence to prove his worth. Crouch was nervous not because of his youth, but because of his innocence. He had never experienced such rebellion of a government, and it was only made worse by the fact that his father was in the Ministry circle himself. The fact that he had such connections was probably the only reason Voldemort hadn't disposed of him.

"Rosier and Mulciber sent a letter from the north that arrived this morning. The three giant tribes they've contacted have sent each of their leaders together in some sort of discussion. They're going to require some supplies." With a crinkle, he drew out the parchment from his pocket and scanned it, his eyes moving back and forth quickly. His eyes didn't left the page as he continued to speak. "Mead, meat, and the otter furs from further south." He read nerously, his shoulders hunched under the weight of many eyes. "They are especially interested in the Friendyfire bottle and have asked for more. Along with the usual metals and gems." He coughed and looked up, shoving the parchment back into his pocket. Voldemort nodded to himself, waving a hand as a signal to continue. "Th-they say the proposition looks good, but it would be solidified much faster if my Lord himself appeared to give proof of power. The Giants are much more negotiable than they were last March." Quickly, the boy sat down, his face a deep red, breathing deeply as if Voldemort was going to curse him that instant.

Voldemort struggled to keep from cursing the boy simply because his breathing was annoying him. The Dark Lord instead thought of the Giant problem. His followers were more than wealthy enough to deliever the goods, but he would of course be in charge of organizing such a thing, again. Red pupils locked onto Karkaroff, still fidgiting uncomftorably. There may be a way to ensure the work got done while placing Karkaroff under pressure.

"Igor," He began, anger and glee mixing together to form a soft demented tone. "Would you be so _kind_ as to supply our dear friends with the supplies needed?" His words dripped with sarcasm, and a few members around the table could scarecely hold back smirks of amusement. Everyone knew how Igor Karkaroff was so well off, yet hardly shared his wealth for the common good of the Death Eaters and the Dark Lord. He had been under suspicion many times, simply because he protected his wealth as if that was the only thing that could protect him. Many thought, what would he need protecting from, if not to betray the Dark Lord? The man twitched beneath his beard at the far end of the table. He had the choice to deny, of course, as this time Voldemort had asked instead of commanded, but he dare not rise to the challenge. No one escaped from a power struggle with Voldemort alive.

"I will have some of my student deliver it to the meeting point immediatly." He bowed his head obediantly, but Voldemort could see the things no one else could. The way his neck strained, his jaw clentching for a millisecond before he agreed, and the way his eyes flickered just for a moment to the exit. The Dark Lord missed nothing, and here he had a Death Eater close to bolting.

With steeled fingers, Voldemort eyed the man with distain. "And what of you, Igor? What of your report?"

The Durmstrang Headmaster, already strained, stood up awkwardly. He could feel the pressure of many eyes glaring at him, like a pack of wolves would glare at a rabbit, salivating and waiting for the pounce to end its life. The man shifted in his fur cloak nervously and cleared his throat, feeling the tension.

"Several student are graduating next year and are eager to join the fight. Of the ones who have graduated, thirty one report being ready. Of these, five have contacts with the Norwegian government, three with the Swedish and one with Bulgaria. I have these former students residing in the castle for the summer, under the pretense of career work."

"Good." Voldemort unsteepled his fingers and splayed them across the wood, watching the threads of grain in thought. "Keep the ones with connections out of any fighting until further notice. I want a full list of who they are connected to and their family history. The other ones will wait, going about business as normal. They should be branded with the dark mark within the next few weeks. Arrange a boat. Is there anything else?" People all across the world were slowly lining up to be a part of the Dark Lord's army, and the thought made Voldemort shiver with apprehension. Soon, his plans would fall into motion like a well oiled machine and the world would never know what hit them.

Karkaroff swallowed thickly before continuing. "No, my lord." He bowed his head and sat quietly, hiding his anger and fear behind a mask of thoughtfulness.

The Death Eaters shuffled unanimously, each asking to be next. Bellatrix even sent a pleading glace towards the Dark Lord before dropping her gaze respectfully and leaning forward, as if to distinguish herself from the crowd. Voldemort took a moment of thought. The Carrow siblings had the werewolf report, Goyle was head of the recruitment in the Netherlands, the Lestranges were organizing the attacks on a few select wizarding families, Nott and Crabbe were disrupting the peace in the muggle world, and finally Malfoy had a report of financial affairs.

Taking a deep breath, Voldemort eyed the group before him. Some were weak seeking protection, most bullies seeking a new way to cause pain, and yet they were all useful in their own way. When they ceased being useful, they were disposed of. No one was here that had no purpose. Voldemort was the next, and last, Dark Lord, and he didn't allow just anyone be Death Eaters. At the end, there could only be him, and no one else. That was the difference between the Order of the Pheonix and his Death Eaters. The Order was made out of 'friends' and twisted justice-seekers, but his Death Eaters would fight until they died, and then they were replaced. Only he would reign.

There would only be one ruler at the end of this war, and that was Voldemort.

Harry Potter growled in annoyance as something stabbed him in the temple. For one blissful moment, the world was safe. The-boy-who-lived was lying in his dorm chambers, in a familiar four-poster bed, red and gold drapes hanging before him. He would wake up, shove Ron off of his bed, get dressed and head down to breakfast. Hermione would be waiting, and they would laugh and continue to their classes. Somewhere in the day, he would run into Ginny, and have a secret conversation with their eyes before the storm moved them along their days.

Then he opened his eyes.

Hard reality came crashing down upon him. A dim light shone through the cracks in the boarded up window, to show the dust floating above him. Everything came back to him in a painful rush of emotions. The war, his death, and above all, his arrival in Hogsmeade, lost and out of control. He reached up a weary hand and pulled at his glasses, straightening them on his face without sitting up. Somehow, forgetting to take his glasses off before bed seemed like a perfectly normal thing. He was well rested, yet tired. Tired and confused, Harry Potter stared at the ceiling of the shrieking shack.

How long he lay there he didn't know; his mind was blank, not even trying to figure out what was going on. Halfheartedly, he realized that he had been hoping this was all a bad dream, a very bad dream from which he could wake. Still, he stared at the ceiling and tried to ignore the thoughts that came after the battle was fought, the thoughts of everyone who had died in it. After the ministry, all he could think about was Sirius. Now he found that after the battle of Hogwarts, all he could think about was the many dead, grey faces...

Suddenly, he was upright and moving. He had to start moving, somehow. Unsticking his clothes from the ceiling, he found them completely dry and began layering on his entire wardrobe. He quickly slipped his shirt over his chest, shrugging into his pants and already feeling a bit warmer. The cold that was outside was slowly seeping in, making him shiver as he wondered how he had even slept through the night with only the cloak to protect him. Although, being exhausted probably helped.

Lacing up his shoes tightly, the Golden Boy remembered his first objective: get a look at the Daily Prophet. Once he found out how long he was gone he could go ahead and send an owl to Ron. The fur cloak created a warm air flow against his skin in a matter of seconds after he buttoned it up. Picking up his invisibility cloak from the couch, he realized it was too ominous to be a stranger wandering around with bulging pockets. Instead, he tied the cloak around his neck losely, letting it hang down his back like a cape and tucking it beneath the large fur jacket King's Cross had given him. The first hollow was completely invisible from sight, but easily accessible if anything happened.

The stone was light enough, but also small and too easily lost. Harry slipped the stone into the cloth sack with his galleons, tying the strings around his empty belt loop. The Elder wand had to lay, barely hidden, with his Holly wand in his overly large pockets. He briefly thought of getting a holster for both of them, as sticking them in his pants just wasn't going to cut it anymore. Turning around, he looked at his broom. His old Firebolt seemed a little too outstanding for his purposes. After all, if Voldemort _had _won the war, he certainly didn't want to be recognized. After brief contemplation, he decided to make it less noticeable.

Hermione was the real genius in Transfiguration, but as Harry took out the Elder wand he decided it would be easier to transform his broom into a nimbus 2000 instead of something completely different, since he knew intimately what they looked like. It would presumably be easier with the Elder wand as well. He glanced uneasily at the wand, which hummed in his palm happily. If wands could have emotions, this one would feel content, its humming was so soft and steady. Harry knew the Elder wand would be in his command, and yet he still had to get used to the change in wand.

Holding the image of his old Nimbus 2000 in his mind, he pointed his wand solidly at the Firebolt leaning against the wall. With a quick flick of his wand, he cast the general transformation spell for inanimate objects.

"Vicissitudo!" Without the Elder wand, Harry may never had gotten it to work. On the first try, however, his familiar Firebolt mophed slowly and changed into an old, weather worn Nimbus 2000. The long wood twisted and became lighter, less polished, the twigs sticking out of the brush became wirey and thick, and sparkling gold letters drew themselves onto the handle. A wide grin spread across Harry's face, pleased as the broom began to settle. Stowing the rather handy Elder wand in his pocket, he grabbed his broom with one hand and promised to practice that spell with his Holly wand so he would always remember it. The Nimubs felt rough and familiar in his palm.

This was no time to marvel of the Elder wands powers, though. Harry shook his head, not wanting to face the hard reality of what had probably happened to him. It could be even worse than he thought, but the only way to find out was to go to Hogsmeade and figure out what was going on. The only thing he could do was move forwards, and hope that moving was enough to escape the pain of his many dead friends.

He swept out of the room, leaving everything as it was. The fire had burned down to embers, casting a ghostly glow through the dark room. The neat couch was fluffed and clean, sitting very out of place in the rest of the grey house. Planks of wood settled against the fireplace, half chewed and gnawed by its current tenent. As Harry stalked on the muddy track back towards Hogsmeade, sheltering himself against the wind, he had not even an inkling that anyone would come across it, and wonder who in gods name would spend the night in a shack where a werewolf lived?

The Boy-Who-Lived turned up his hood as the first roof came into his view. Raindrops drizzled lazily as the storm clouds moved, climbing their way back to the ocean. The morning was grey and dreary, and the storm was just dissapearing by the time Harry got out. He couldn't tell if it was morning or midday, but he supposed it didn't matter. The watch he got from Mrs. Weasley had vanished off of his wrist, but he was sure that The Three Broomsticks would have some sort of time telling device.

The muddy road beneath him squished and sqealched beneath his shoes, and Harry grimaced and he yanked his shoes out of a puddle. Already soaked and muddy, he hurried the pace, left hand gripping the 'old' broom tightly. He stalked across the middle of the road, the only one who was outside, and he ducked his head further into his cloak in waryness. Why was everyone hiding? Then again, they could all just be tired and not to keen on wandering in the aftermaths of a storm. He was probably just overreacting. As Harry neared the Three Broomsticks, he quickened the pace.

He had breifly debated going to the Hog's head, but there were many complications to be had with that plan. Aberforth may recognize him and freak out, maybe even cursing him and interrogating him. The Hog's head was less crowded and quieter, but it was also MORE suspicious to be seen there than the Three Broomsticks. It was a matter of reverse psychology. Besides, the Hog's Head didn't serve food.

As he stepped before the door, a small pit of worry formed in his stomach. Something was off about the place, he decided as he inspected it, but he couldn't put his finger on what. The people inside were mulling about, attempting to smile and laugh by the warm fire but slowly falling back into the sad looks and staring at their butterbeers. Other than the patrons mood, he could find nothing different. Quickly scourgifying his shoes, he pushed the door open.

The warm atmosphere and smells shot through him like an arrow. It was happiness and at the same time, pain. It reminded him of a better time, a time when Ginny was always near him, a time when his friends and him laughed, and the thoughts of that made him cringe. As soon as he found the date, he was going to apparate straight into Ginny's room. He just wanted to hold her in his arms, feel her heart beat against his, safe and warm.

He wandered in a daze to his typical table, pulling up a chair to face the door. He kept his hood up, covering his view and hiding his face in shadow. Setting his broom against the wall, he leaned back as Rosmerta came up, cherrfully taking out a pen and paper.

"What will you have, dear?" She chirped, smiling down at him. Thankfully, she seemed to be the only one not suspicious of him and his hood, as everyone was sending him fearful glances.

He lowered his voice slightly. "A warm mug of Butterbeer. Scrambled eggs, sausage, black pudding, crisp bacon, mushrooms, a spoon of baked beans, hash browns, and half a tomato, please. Oh, and I would also like today's Daily Prophet, if you have it." He smiled, tilting his head up so Rosmerta could see, and perhaps the rest of the customers as well. The girl wrote everything down quickly, finally turning to face him.

"It'll be right up." She bounced off, her hair swinging casually behind her.

Harry leaned back in his chair, glancing around. Rosmerta seemed off as well, and still he couldn't quite place his finger on why. Soon, the girl came back, swiftly depositing the paper and steaming mug before him. And then it hit him.

Rosmerta was a _girl_. He stared as the young woman hopped off, carfully tending to her other customers. There was no doubt about it, she was younger than before. Her step had a slight hop to it, her eyes were brighter, and the wrinkles Harry had gotten so used to see crinkling at him were vanished. Her dress hung to her curves, and though she was still older than Harry himself, if he had to guess he would have put her at twenty five at the most.

The shock caught him off-guard. For a moment, all he could do was stare as the girl walked away, his hand fumbling for the warm mug. He brought it up to his mouth, his mind stalled once more, and took a deep drink. The warmth tingled his sense, the slight tang of alchohol pinching his tounge. Harry found butterbeer always helped him think in the worst situations. Looking down, he glared at the paper and searched for the number on the top.

He wasn't quite prepared for that shock, as well.

_July 2nd, 1974. _


End file.
